


A(nother) Scandal in Bohemia

by SweetEdelweiss



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9473231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetEdelweiss/pseuds/SweetEdelweiss
Summary: A Scandal in Bohemia takes a detour when the CEO of a fashionable clothing line begs Sherlock to take compromising photos from Addie, the American popstar with whom the CEO shares a past.





	

 

“Come along, John, I told you last night that we would have a visitor!” snapped a strident voice. As John Watson slowly awoke in his chair, he realised that Sherlock Holmes, his roommate, was shaking him awake. Though John was fairly certain that he had not  _ heard _ Sherlock tell him this, he also knew that it was a good way to be excluded from this case. Perhaps that explained the strange turn in his dream last night. He mused as he went to get a coffee.

As John returned to the living room with his mug, he was rather shocked to see a masked man in his seat, with Sherlock across from him. The stranger appeared to be lean and fit, with the type of bright blond hair which some may have called platinum. He was wearing black, well fitted -and rather good quality- pants, as well as an expensive black suit jacket and a dark t-shirt. Aside from the mask, the man wore no jewelry or accessories, except from the newest model of cell phone in his well-manicured hand. Even John could deduce that the man had never worked a day in his life. 

“Well, the mask’s coming off,” Sherlock stated flippantly, as was his fashion. 

“What!” The man began to protest, but Sherlock cut him off. 

“Come on,” began Sherlock. “Even though your face is hidden -rather  poorly, I may add, due to the mirror you chose to sit by- your hair is a rather remarkable color. Further, if you choose to both wear your  _ own _ brand of clothing into my apartment and keep your anonymity, I can only add that I find you to be even less intelligent than I previously had believed.”

“But-” began the masked man, but Sherlock again cut him off. 

“Oh, yes, I know who you are,” he continued, voice dripping with contempt. “Jack Smithington, CEO of Jack clothing. The  _ Prince _ of  _ Bohemia _ .”

Jack Smithington gasped dramatically, then removed the mask, speaking in a well cultured, if faintly American accent. He looked to be in his mid-twenties, with a thin face and sharp nose. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected to hide my identity from the famous Sherlock Holmes!” Sherlock seemed to be heroically refraining from rolling his eyes. 

“Honestly don’t know why you bothered.” A drowsy John, sitting and cradling his mug at this point, smiled. “What do you want?” Sherlock demanded. 

Jack began to speak, hesitantly. “Do you know an ... Irene Adler?” Sherlock snickered, and John’s jaw dropped. Irene “Addie” Adler? He didn’t know too much about her. Only tabloid headlines. The American pop-star on her first world tour? The Addie who had been linked in the tabloids to any man - and a few women - who stood within 50 feet of her? Including her ever-present camera man? Jack, seeing John’s face, sighed. “Yes, Dr. Watson, that Irene Adler. Addie and I knew each other ... ” he paused expressively. “A while ago. I was young ...” He paused again. “While we were, uh, together, she was able to get some ... compromising photos. I was able to recover most of them, but I, uh, didn’t know about the last copy she had. Now that I’m about to launch a new brand, she has threatened to release them to the public. They will cause enough of an uproar that my reputation and the company’s earnings will never recover!” 

John waited, and Sherlock looked faintly disgusted, but interested, as Jack continued to speak. “So I need to get them back. I know she keeps them somewhere close to her, and I will cover all expenses and pay double the going rate.” Though John was sure that Sherlock’s contempt for the man would prevent him from taking the case, he sighed. Not everyone got to meet a star, he knew, even if he didn’t listen to pop music anyway. 

“Very well, I’ll take the case. Have to pay rent, anyway. Mrs. Hudson upped it after the wall incident, anyway. I’ll need two VIP tickets for the concert in a week, bought with cash, please, and a deposit down front.” 

Jack seemed likely to faint with relief. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes! Let me tell you everything I know.”

 ~~*~~

As John Watson stood on line with Sherlock Holmes, he still hardly could believe his position. They were actually going to one of Addie’s concerts. The Addie who he’d known was somewhat famous, but Sherlock had felt the need to make him listen to her entire discography (not  _ him _ , of course. Sherlock seemed to have little respect for the bloody earworms.) Sherlock’d even bought a tabloid or two, to add to his internet research and own specialized search engine (because of course he had one), all with a smiling Addie, all five feet of her, on the cover. 

Though he wasn’t sure how he had missed it before, John now recognised that her auburn pixie cut was typically overshadowed by Addie’s “signature” clothing style. It looked, to him, suspiciously like she had been blindfolded, thrown into a bombed-out thrift store, then rolled through a fluorescent paint and sequin factory. It wasn’t, at least according to the interviews Sherlock had found, a cry for attention, really- she already had enough of that. Both of her parents had been minor actors, and she had apparently had famous friends, even as a child. Any reporter who even mentioned her clothing would be subjected to an ecstatic description of every detail, usually including that she had made her neck brace, or something, by herself. And it was nearly impossible to keep her on topic afterwards, even more so than usual, at least, as she would inevitably revert to talking about the fabric she liked. It seemed that few of them even bothered to ask about what she wore. They just snapped a photo of whatever eye-bleeding outfit she had on, and continued with a (fairly) professional talk. 

Over all, her public image, aside from the scandal-screaming tabloids, seemed to paint a good-natured ditz. John started to hum one of her newer hits, and only stopped after he noticed Sherlock’s glare. Sherlock was in the typically slightly too tight shirt, one that had probably been in his closet since he’d moved out of his parents’ house, and would remain there until either Mrs. Hudson, his mother, or a particularly noxious experiment caused it them be disposed of. The normal coat and jeans completed the look. 

John, while not in full Addie-style costume, like many of the surrounding concert goers who nearly blended in with the bush-like, kaleidoscopic glass monstrosity passing as an outdoor art installation, had at least managed a bright, multicolored sweater. It had been bought for him at a thrift store the day before, by Mrs. Hudson, but it seemed rather fitting to the ideas Addie seemed to have about fashion. Though Jack had apparently sprung for the VIP tickets that Sherlock required, the lines were egalitarian. The VIP included a chance to meet Addie at the half time, and that was it. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that. There didn't seem to be much of a plan.

~~*~~

At the intermission, Sherlock pulled John aside to tell him the plan. John, unfortunately in Sherlock’s mind, did not take it well. “You want me to set off the fire alarm? While you’re meeting with Addie!?” Although forced to whisper, John’s indignation remained easily apparent. 

“Yes, John, I need to see where she keeps the photos. Jack said there was no digital copy, and that she kept it near by. If I am going to steal this ‘youthful indiscretion,’ I need to find it first.  _ Our client _ insists that I cannot look at the photo. Jack seems to enjoy being difficult.”

“No, I understand why, I’m just... Do you realize what you’re asking? The whole place is going to be evacuated!”

Sherlock sniffed, treating these objections with the respect they so obviously deserved. “Nobody should have to listen to this for another two hours, and besides, her second halfs tend to be weak, anyway. She’s starting to get hoarse already. Just pull the alarm when I signal.” Sherlock disappeared into the VIP line while John walked casually towards a bathroom just outside, and the red alarm nearby. Sherlock disappeared into the dressing rooms, and after a minute, Watson got the text to set off the alarm, which he did as casually as possible. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, was playing a painfully shy fan. The Fan could hardly look at Addie, despite her seeming kindness and attempts to put the tall man at ease. To his professional eye, the rumors about her escapades had to be false. After all, Addie was treating him with the same flirtatious kindness, though toned down as The Fan stammered repeatedly with nerves, that she gave to her cameraman. He was a quieter, heavy man, who seemed used to this type of treatment. The cameraman seemed to happily return every wink he was given, at least after he entered from a side door. 

The room was horribly cluttered; costumes and bits on movable racks everywhere. The costumes were informative, but didn’t really tell him much about Addie, other than that she may have been red-green colorblind. In a corner was a set of filing cabinets, with several unusually shaped locks, which he believed to be the best bet. In order, the locks were shaped like a heart, a skull, a rainbow, a triangle, and a penguin. Based on Jack's scanty details, the heart seemed to be the most likely hiding place. Suddenly, finally, the fire alarm went off. Sherlock watched out of the corner of The Fan’s eye as the cameraman’s eyes met Addie’s for an instant, then each leaped in a different direction. He sprang for his camera, in a neon bag under the costume rack, while Addie ran for a thin, square box, in the heart shaped lock’s drawer. Then, both helped the “poor star-struck fellow” out of the room where John joined him as they slipped away from the crowd of concertgoers rapidly exiting the concert hall. Fire truly did expose treasures.

John could tell that Sherlock was nearly ecstatic with excitement and anticipation, as indicated by a near smile. “Now the game really is on. She flies to Rome tomorrow, so we come back tonight.”

~~*~~

John was anxious, though he supposed it wasn’t really about breaking into Addie’s dressing room. She seemed to be well known for partying, or at least being out, the night before any plane ride. Several interviews had her laughing about how stupid she had been to leave some prop or other behind, because she just hadn’t thought about packing it yet, it was only a few hours before the flight anyway, and packing was no way to end a party. There hadn't been any reports of drunken escapades, but she would be out. Sherlock and John were both ready for the job; dark enough clothing that they wouldn’t stand out, but normal enough that they would probably be mistaken for security guards for at least a second or two. 

Scaling the gates was easy, and if John felt any scruples about this, he tried to remember that this simple task would save a multi-million pound business. He wasn't doing it for Jack, or really for Sherlock. It was for the workers and people depending on Jack0. 

They walked from the fence into the absurdly low security area. For a minute, in the shadows, it seemed deserted, but then a small female guard yelled hoarsely in their direction. “Zane, you and Shepfield are late again! I had to cover for you! I’m taking it out of your pay!” 

John froze, but Sherlock had the presence of mind to yell a reply. “Fine! We’re just going to check in!” The guard seemed satisfied with this reply, and turned back to look impressive elsewhere. John let out a breath, and they continued, finding a stopper in the door Sherlock had already chosen as the best one to pick the lock of. 

The men entered the stadium. John felt uncomfortable, as if he was entering an ambush, but it must have been nothing. It was just that Sherlock must have memorized the layout, so they found the door faster than he has expected. That was all. That had to be it.

Even though the lights were out, the windows were large enough to let in plenty of light from the external floodlights that both had carefully avoided outside. Sherlock easily found the correct file cabinet. Now to get there.

They had to avoid the clutter and costumes that must have appeared after the concert, but otherwise the room was entirely uneventful. No landmines, just rhinestones. Sherlock appeared to have a slight moral qualm about actually cracking the heart-shaped lock, but he quickly found the correct number combination, and slowly slid open the drawer. He grabbed the pink box that Addie had taken out earlier, tucked it under his arm, and both of them turned to leave back through the piles of flashy femininity.

The halls were dark and deserted, and again they made it outside just slightly too quickly for John's comfort. His nerves were on edge. Something was wrong. He knew it, and he couldn't feel what it was. But he did know it.   

Once the men were outside, halfway free, Sherlock froze. John did the same instantly. Then he heard it too. Footsteps! It couldn't have been the same guard as earlier; the footfall was far too heavy. 

They stood still, slightly behind the bushy artwork the line had wound around only a few hours ago, as Addie’s cameraman turned the corner of the building. Sherlock would have to bluff their way out; John knew he couldn't do it now. 

Just then, they heard a faint, hoarse yell from around the corner. They couldn’t hear the whole thing, just the tone, but the voice seemed to be calling a Steven over. The cameraman was named Steven? He turned and yelled back, “I’m coming!” As Steven walked off, he spoke the most words that John had ever heard from him. “I really wish she wouldn’t do that.” 

John let out a breath, and the two made it back to Baker Street without incident, other than a slight difficulty in hailing a cab. They must have blended in just a bit too well.

Addie’s cameraman and the guard, meanwhile, walked happily towards the single open door, laughing, joking, and flirting outrageously. As the guard’s dark cap blew off, the floodlights revealed a mob of bright, auburn hair.

~~*~~

Jack seemed nervous, or at least, more nervous than before. It was interesting to see that the bravado that had even hired Sherlock was truly such a thin veneer of strength. He was fairly sure Sherlock had known it already, but the man hadn’t bothered to tell John before. The disgust he’d displayed earlier wasn’t even particularly unusual, so John had had little way of telling how much he had truly disliked Jack. The man was wearing the same mask as earlier, on his lap now of course, and similar clothing. 

“You have it?” Sherlock handed him the box. Jack opened it, and sighed in relief as he pulled out something folded into an “Addie!” poster from the concert - an Elementary School Yearbook? - and covered by a letter. As Jack grabbed the letter, he blanched, then silently handed it to Sherlock. He unfolded it, read it quickly, and then silently handed it to John. 

 

_ Dear Mr. Holmes (and Jack, too, Hi!): _

_ I hope you’re aware that I kept my promise. Jack, this is the last copy. If you  had asked, I would have given it to you, you know. Jack, give the paper to Mr. Holmes now, please! Mr. Holmes must be wondering what gave him away.  _

_ For a master of disguise, you do spend far too little time on proper costuming, especially for a man who has been all over the papers. As a popstar, and being surrounded by actors, you ought to have given me the credit of at least a basic disguise. I recognised you, and Steven saw Dr. Watson, and since I know that Jack would be antsy, or unlikely to believe that I wouldn’t betray him, we planned for the worst. I do hope you forgive my flair for the dramatic; I must tell you that I was the security guard, though I admit that I was a bit hoarse after the concert. I was so worried that you actually would do the noble thing, and not come! And later, I couldn’t bear for poor Steven to interrupt your  successful getaway ! And as a woman known for my costumes, I have found that few actually do recognize me in “street clothes.” I’m sure you know the feeling.  _

_ Anyway, Steven and I are off on the World tour - I would have called it the five year anniversary tour, or something, but he didn’t approve.  _

_ Love, Irene “Addie” Adler _

_P.S. - I do hope you realize that if any rumors about our marriage leak out, Mr. Holmes (or Dr. Watson), that you realize it would be both petty and entirely ineffective! As another of the unfortunate tabloid favorites, I’m sure you two appreciate how annoying it is when they actually do tell the truth._

 

Sherlock waited for John to look up, then began, voice filled with angry contempt. “You lied to me, and about what? A fond childhood memory?” 

Jack began to stutter again. “It would ruin my company! My reputation for style! You have no idea! None!” 

Sherlock straightened out the poster, wordlessly, as Jack babbled. Though slightly crumpled, it still showed Addie.  Rhinestone spangled overalls and tie-dye covered the page, with Addie herself turning to smile at the adoring fan who had bought the poster. In the left corner, she had left an inscription in silver marker. 

 

_ To a great game! _

_ -Addie _

 

“I know you’re upset, Mr. Holmes,” Jack began, “and if there’s any way I can-”

“The poster.”

“What?”  _ What? _

“The poster. I want the poster. Pay double the rate, get out, and never contact me again.”

Jack, as he rushed to the door with letter and “Southward Elementary Yearbook” in hand, gulped a “Thanks, check’s on the way” before rushing into the street. John felt an overwhelming urge to laugh at the absurdity of the entire “case,” but Sherlock carefully rolled up the poster, and, grabbing two thumbtacks from a mug, left for his room. 

~~*~~

While we know very little about any of Sherlock Holmes’s personal space, most tend to assume that it is completely impersonal. It is uncluttered, clean, perfect, for fit for a man whose mind is also perfectly ordered. This is not completely true, for, hanging in a corner, is a poster of the short-burning star, Addie. 

She has been briefly commemorated, after her sudden and recent death, in John Watson’s blogs as “The Woman who Outsmarted Sherlock Holmes.” Most people, and tabloids, will have forgotten her already. Steven, her widower, will mourn her for the rest of his life. 

And she will be immortalized in Sherlock’s mind simply as “The Woman.”

~~*~~

_ (A slightly faded photograph of a tiny, gap-toothed, and widely smiling, red-haired girl and blond boy, both wearing matching, spectacularly ugly, lime green flamenco dancing costumes. Below the photo is the line “Jack Worthington and Irene Adler dressed up as Spanish Dancers for our International Week!”) _

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> I disliked the BBC’s version of Adler. Not because she was a bad character, or unnecessary, or even not important to the plot. She was fascinating, but she wasn't what I wanted. Furthermore, the original Holmes is a misogynist. A modern Holmes couldn't do that to anywhere near the same extent, but would be far more likely to make quick judgements based on “mental superiority,” which is where I have him trip up here.


End file.
